


Full Custody

by htebazytook



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Drunkenness, Humor, M/M, Romance, Slash, UST, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-19
Updated: 2009-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:17:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The image of drunk!Wilson in this episode was just too irresistible.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Full Custody

**Author's Note:**

> The image of drunk!Wilson in this episode was just too irresistible.

**Title:** Full Custody  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** R-ish (for Suggestive Dialogue. No, really.)  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Pairing:** House/Wilson  
 **Time Frame:** During 4.13, 'No More Mr. Nice Guy', following the scene at the bar.  
 **Author's Notes:** The image of drunk!Wilson in this episode was just too irresistible.

 

 

"I gotta get home," Wilson said, tried to navigate around House to the door.

"Don't be an idiot." House dragged him back onto his stool. " _I_ drove _you_ here."

The bartender swung by again and Wilson signaled him glumly. "Can I get another—"

"You want this one shaken, not stirred?" House interrupted.

Wilson snorted. "Why the hell not." He rubbed at his eyes, resigned and worried. "Ohh, this is such a bad idea."

House nodded at the guy and he disappeared, returned freakishly fast with Wilson's martini.

"Drink up, Mr. Bond," House egged.

"Oh God, what am I _doing_?" But he took a healthy gulp of the shiny new alcohol anyway.

"Eh, you're too far gone by now, might as well get as epically drunk as possible."

"You've been drinking coffee all damn night."

" _You've_ been drinking martinis all damn night. See, I'm smart too."

House noticed Wilson's eyes borrowing the glow of the neon behind the bar, kind of scary against the shadows. "Maybe I don't wanna go back," Wilson said abruptly. Looked confused by himself. House wondered why he hadn't called it 'home' this time—certainly had a look in his eye.

"And why is that?" Leading the conversation was easy when Wilson was tipsy and talkative. And he really did seem eager to drink. To be fair, the fact that House insisted on paying might have convinced him, but it also should've set off clamorous, fluorescent warning signs in Wilson's head. House didn't feel too guilty.

Okay, now Wilson was distinctly guzzling. The flutey glass hit the bar again way too quickly. House plucked a neglected olive from the bottom and ate it. Sweet tang of ethanol.

Wilson's eyes were closed. He was trying to stop himself from grinning. Not so talkative all of a sudden.

"Something funny?"

"H-hold. Just hold on." Still closed. Wilson rubbed at the back of his neck and they opened with a little bit of lag. Looked good on him though.

"Um, Wilson?"

"I'm ready now. Let's go." He leapt off the stool again so fast it nearly toppled over, caught House's sleeve and forced him to keep pace.

Outside it was darker than House had expected, lukewarm air tempered with the chill of night. It took him a minute to realize that Wilson was still leading him, that it wasn't in the direction of the car.

Alley? Alley. And then Wilson spun around and fell against the brick wall with his hands caught up in House's lapels.

"C'mere," he said.

"Wilson?" House waved a hand in front of his face. "You still in there?"

"No, yeah, just c'mere . . ."

House knew it was a bad sign when the situation called for a facial expression that strained muscles. "If you're trying to prove—"

Wilson cut him off: "You smell good." And yes, he was sniffing. His eyes were unfocused and darting and House wished he could see his pupils better but it was just too dark.

"You smell like _alcohol_ ," House enunciated, talking to him like a toddler.

Wilson breathed him in again, closed his eyes, sort of swaying closer. "Hey, can I kiss you?" Then the eyes flew open, all melty and brown and _close_ and House just stared into them. "I'm gonna kiss you," Wilson decided.

House was probably allowed to reciprocate for awhile if Wilson was going to be so stubborn. The sound of their mouths, hesitant and wet, made the way it felt at least ten times better. Wilson licked at his upper lip, started kissing him at a different angle and House tried to push him away but the way they were smooshed into one another and the wall made it difficult.

"Nono it's okay 'cause you're on drugs too," Wilson assured him. He ran his hands up and down House's chest, leaned forward to kiss the side of his neck.

"That's not really what I was worried about, but . . . shit." Now it was more like sucking where neck met shoulder and Wilson's breathing was shallow and because he'd shifted slightly over House was now absolutely certain that Wilson was getting hard. "What the hell—whatever happened to sexual shortcomings while inebriated?"

"God, House, you really don't know—know anything do you, huh?" He collapsed against the wall again, panting slightly. "I got you! I _lied_ to Julie and whatshername and, you know, a _lot_ to Bonnie. _Liiieeeed_. It's-it's clever, get it? I'm so fucking clever with women, House . . ." Wilson's eyes zoomed all over him and House felt the residual heat rush up his spine. "You look . . . fucking good in black," Wilson remarked.

This time, House kissed him. It was nice to press Wilson against a solid, rough surface. Nice to feel him moaning. Ridiculously wonderful to let Wilson's tongue slide into his mouth and moan back and battle and Wilson pulling him so tightly close and—

And his phone was ringing. Loudly.

_Who let the dogs out? Woof! Woof, woof woof! Who let the dogs out?_

House fumbled around in his pocket until he got it to shut up.

"Was that . . . ?" Wilson was breathing in such a fast and high-pitched manner as to suggest they'd been engaging in much more exciting activities than mere kissing. The suggestion was probably what made it so distractingly hot.

House had taken a generous step backwards in order to catch his own breath. "Yep," he said, struggling with offhandedness.

"She won't bite." Wilson was deep in thought, voice still all throaty when he spoke. "You're gonna need a cooler one for your team."

"Well, it's just that I'm not sure if I should stick with the already included Brady Bunch theme or put out ninty-nine cents for 'Help!'." He let his eyes get big and ridiculous, nodded.

"Well it's to the point, certainly." Wilson looked hilariously concerned about House's ringtone dilemma

House nodded again. He didn't think he'd ever been this awkward with Wilson.

"We should—"  
"I should—"

"Ye _ah_. Come on, let's get you home before someone lets the bitch off her leash."

Wilson giggled. House was starting to fear for his sanity. At least he'd stopped panting.

They made it a few unsteady feet before House gave in and slung Wilson's arm around his neck for support. It was weird, but it was familiar contact (although usually the other way around) and gave House some small relief from the awkwardness.

That is, until Wilson tried to molest him against the car. House used it to his advantage to distract him while he forced him into the passenger seat, slammed the door on Wilson's disoriented face.

House started up the car, had NPR on at a background grumble while Wilson pouted, not looking like himself. He was quiet though.

House couldn’t read him. Felt somehow out of his element without Wilson's nametag pinned to his chest for reference—he'd looked obscenely happy when they'd taken that damn picture and the optimistic, out-dated face helped remind House that Wilson wasn't at all like his smile. And at some point it had become out of the ordinary to see Wilson in clothing other than the ties and the labcoats with nametags, and at some point this had rendered him unpredictable in his jeans and plain greenish shirts. And at some point it became kind of a turn on. Wilson was still suspiciously quiet.

They'd ended up behind an infuriatingly cautious driver and House made a pissy noise and checked the glowing digital time. Unfortunately there was plenty.

Wilson shifted around but House didn't get a chance to see how until they hit a stop sign, then wished he hadn't looked because Wilson's head cradled between the headrest and the window was exposing his neck deliciously and the buttery light from a non-halogen streetlamp wasn't helping.

Static from the radio, and something indistinct about Bush and upcoming economic shit in the Middle East. House switched back to the gas pedal.

"Nnnn," Wilson emitted. "Are we there yet?"

"Nope."

"We're real— _really_ late, huh?" He was mumbling and House wasn't sure if he was entirely awake.

"Nope."

"Well you might as well just take me back to your place since we're waaaay too late and she'd—" he yawned "—y'know, kill you. Or me maybe. Whatever."

"S- _till_ not gonna be late."

Wilson sighed, made an indistinct gesture with one hand but gave it up. House glanced over and saw that his eyes were closed.

"I just don't understand why you're so inis— _in-sis-tent_ on getting me back on time. Since when do you follow th' rules?"

"I'm a man of principle."

"I'd kiss you again but you're driving and I'm . . . pathetic."

"Tough luck." House was totally in control of this conversation.

"You want me to kiss you again?"

" _Hey_ whatever happened to talking about Amber? That was a good, heterosexual topic."

"You don't care about that!" Wilson laughed, sure of himself. "You know what I wanna do?"

"Start a line of hair care products."

"Close. Listen, I've been thinking about this. I wanna to kiss you again, first of all, and then I want to touch you and bite on your ear and lick it and breathe on it. Yeah. I bet I could get you hard—I'm really good at sex usually. You probably already figured that out though. And, and then I _really_ want to touch you and—"

"I think it would be best if you didn't impart all of this _to your girlfriend_ when you get back," House pointed out. The hottest thing about Wilson right now was how he was saying all of this slow and dreamy with his eyes closed.

"Mm?" House saw him move out of the corner of his eye, turning, felt his gaze and fought the urge to meet it. "I already told you how good you look right now, right?" Wilson licked his lips. Sounded hypnotized and only partially aware of what was coming out of his mouth. "Once I jerked off at work thinking about you. I had a dream about you and me against my office door the night before and then when you came in that day—I think it was a Tuesday 'cause I remember you ate my donut and they only have those on Tuesdays . . . What was I . . . oh. When you were sitting on my couch and, fuck, when you _look_ at me sometimes—anyway I thought about you in your new jeans and my dream and I . . . _think_ I could hear you and the Three Musketeers in the conference room—something about pulmonary embolisms. God, I came so hard . . . And then we went to lunch and you stole my donut and you _didn't even know_." Wilson dissolved into laughter. "I came so _hard_ , too . . ."

House was beginning to despair of his too-drunk-for-sex plan ever working out at the rate Wilson was describing orgasms. He tried to focus on the unnecessary discomfort involved in driving a car but right now the only things registering were arousal, the way Wilson still smelled like just-dried hair, and the asshole in the Buick doing 15 in a 35.

. . . And Wilson touching himself in his office and fucking Wilson in his office and kissing him in the alleyway ten minutes ago.

"You want me, right?"

House had to stop for a red light, punctuating the question. Had no excuse not to meet Wilson's gaze and couldn’t catch his breath when he did because Wilson looked predatory and corruptible at the same time, his hair a little messed up from the window.

"Just turn the car around," Wilson said, seductive smile looking wrong on him in the best possible way.

House cleared his throat. "Maybe—Wilson?"

"Shhhh." Wilson had collapsed over him, all languid limbs, and he nudged his mouth up from the seatbelt until it met House's. Open and wet too quickly and House was pressing down on the break pedal hard to keep from getting lost in kissing back. Wilson's arms were heavy, vaguely around his neck and the heated bare skin of his forearm touching House's neck was turning him on just as much as getting to lick at the roof of Wilson's mouth, feeling him moan and breathe through his nose.

"It's green," Wilson said suddenly, lips still stuck to House's.

House pushed him back into the passenger seat and it took a minute to catch up to the asshole in the Buick. By the time they were once again tailgating, House's heart had slowed a little and Wilson had slid sleepily down in his seat. He didn't seem pissed though, just out of it.

House turned the radio up a tiny bit but wasn't really listening, wondered if Wilson would forget this ever happened. He didn't trust himself to say anything.

When House had circled the block for the third time Wilson finally emerged from his daze.

"I don’t think she'll notice whether or not you're _exactly_ sixteen minutes late. She's not you."

"Well, that's debatable." House wasn't sure if he was talking about the bitch noticing or insinuating that she was himself in a skirt again. Maybe Wilson was finally taking the hint . . .

"She's not that much of a bitch," Wilson said, confusing pronouns.

"11:15, time to move." House reached over and unbuckled Wilson's seatbelt too, hopped around to open the door and yank him out. Somehow, the procession to the apartment building meant Wilson's arm around his neck again and House's around Wilson's waist and Wilson's murmurs and breath in his ear.

Wilson started mouthing at his jaw when House stopped to struggle with the doorknob, and he fought the stab of arousal halfheartedly before kissing Wilson again, feeling him grin as it ended. Low laughter. Wilson looking like himself under the bright porch light.

"I knew it," he said.

House smacked the buzzer and got the hell out of there.


End file.
